


Canon

by sabinelagrande



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: #coulsonlives, Clint Can't Computer Too Good, Domestic, Humor, In-Universe RPF, M/M, Misunderstanding, Tony "Cockblock" Stark, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:38:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who the hell is Mike, and should Phil Coulson shoot him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Clint had already known it was going to be another overnight on the helicarrier. It was the end of whatever bureaucratic cycle they actually gave a shit about at SHIELD, so Phil was going to be working probably until whenever he let Clint seduce him away from his desk- which could be, depending on Phil's mood, anywhere between 9 PM and Tuesday. And Clint didn't really have any reason to go home if Phil wasn't going to be there, because if Phil wasn't there Clint would just end up going to the range, and there was a range _here_ , so leaving would just be a huge waste of effort on everybody's part.

So he stayed. However, if Clint had to eat one more meal in the commissary he was going to go completely fucking insane, so here Clint was, standing in the tiny kitchen of the living quarters, chopping vegetables for stirfry. He'd bring Phil some, and Phil would eat it on reflex without even noticing, and Clint would stand around feeling really inappropriately like Donna Reed.

Someone was approaching, and Clint looked up; it surprised the hell out of him to see Phil. "Hey," he said happily. "You're early for dinner."

"Who is Mike?" Phil said, without prologue.

Clint's knife hand stopped. "I don't know a Mike. Do you know a Mike? Am I supposed to know him?"

"Barton," Phil said, in the warning tone that Clint usually went to great lengths not to hear; Phil had a lot of warning tones that Clint regularly ignored, but this was the bad one.

Clint put down the knife, turning to face him. "Before I totally screw myself, what happened?"

"I found the stories, Clint."

"People put all kinds of weird stuff on the internet," he said dismissively, trying to sound casual. "You should see the stuff about Steve and Tony, there's this one-"

"Everyone's seen the stuff about Steve and Tony," Phil said, cutting him off. "But you don't download the stuff about Steve and Tony."

"How did you know that?" he demanded, shocked. "Have you been on my computer?"

Phil gave him a look. "You saved it on the S:\ drive."

"Is that not private?"

"I couldn't classify any of our computer systems as completely private as long as Tony Stark is around," Phil said, "but no. The S generally stands for 'Shared.'"

His eyes widened. "Shit, really?"

"Yes, really." Phil tossed a thumb drive onto the counter. "I cleaned your folder. You're welcome."

Clint picked up the drive, fiddling with it. "Well. This is awkward."

"Who is Mike?"

"It's really hard to explain," Clint protested.

"I've got time," Phil told him.

"No, you don't," Clint reminded him.

"I'll make time," he said. "Depending on how this conversation goes, I might find myself with a lot more free time."

Clint swallowed, because Phil really didn't make empty threats. "It's not a big deal," he said. "They're just stories."

"About you and someone else."

Phil really was going to attack-dog him about this until he got answers; Clint never forgot about that, but sometimes he tried really hard to. "Look, Phil-" He sighed in frustration. "Mike is what they call _you_."

Phil looked nonplussed. "What?"

"Yeah," Clint said. "It didn't occur to you that it was strange that his name was 'Mike Hawke'?"

"What's strange about that?" Phil asked, frowning.

Clint put his hand over his eyes. "Oh my god. Look, did you _read_ any of the stories?"

"I may have skimmed them," Phil said, shifting; Clint knew that meant "in great detail and more than once."

"It didn't strike you as odd that in almost all of them, I get injured and have to be rescued by an unassuming, silent man in a suit?"

Phil pursed his lips. "It hadn't escaped my notice."

"I'd think you could put two and two together," Clint coaxed.

It seemed to dawn on Phil, but he still looked unhappy. "There could be other men in suits that I'm not aware of."

Clint walked over, putting his arms around him in a way that completely violated their agreed upon helicarrier limits; but Phil looked like he kind of needed it right now, though he'd never, ever admit it. "Trust me when I say that there really, _really_ couldn't."

Phil sighed, letting Clint hug him. Tony chose exactly that moment to walk by; he leaned over and snagged a piece of broccoli from the counter as he passed, popping it into his mouth. "Get a room."

"Go to Hell, Tony," Clint said amiably.

"G'night, Clint," he called back. "Night, Mike."

"I'm going to kill him one day," Clint said, with no more malice than usual.

"I've got forms for that," Phil said, smirking.

He kissed Phil on the cheek. "Go back to your other deadly paperwork. I'll see you when the food's ready."

Phil smiled, squeezing his hand as he left. Clint shook his head, going back to his vegetables.

He couldn't decide if he hoped Phil had found the Barton/Hawke/Romanoff stuff or not.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint can't bring himself to throw out the thumb drive that Phil gave him, the one with all the stories on it; he just wipes it instead, throwing it into a drawer.

It's not three days before he slots it into his computer again. There's probably a way to recover the files, but Clint doesn't need to know it; Clint remembers every name of every story, every author, and in an hour everything is back the way it was.

Except for the part where Phil's dead.

He wonders now if he should put it back on the S:\ drive, as a public service.

* * *

Clint is walking past the infirmary when he sees it; on the wall near the infirmary, tucked in behind an exposed beam, someone has written _#MikeLives_. 

Clint runs his thumb across it, but it doesn't smear.

* * *

The laptop Clint uses was technically Phil's, but that doesn't mean Phil ever really got to use it. Clint kind of took it whenever he felt like it, and he felt like it a lot. Even after Phil found out about Clint's weird fic habit, Clint still preferred to do his reading alone at night, the lights off and the room illuminated only by the glow from the screen. There was something about it, the indulgent feeling of it, the sneaky, up-after-bedtime sensation.

Now the bed is empty but the lights are still off, his keystrokes quiet. He was always a lurker, but he's commenting more, reading more. He's following so many series, so many authors, but he can keep track of every single one of them, place them exactly. He refreshes his inbox constantly waiting for story notifications, and he reads them as quickly as they come. He's read whole tags, whole archives; he's become one of those needy, desperate fans, the ones who don't seem to do anything else.

And every one of his comments always ends with "Please write more."

* * *

There's a post-it note on the ceiling of the armory, a glaringly orange one, _#mikelives_ and a URL for a tumblr account. It matches the one behind a ladder outside the range, and the one on the side of a quinjet, and the one, Natasha says, in the ladies' room on deck five.

He goes to the tumblr, and he can't decide if he hates or loves what he sees.

* * *

He's got downtime and he's got a bottle of tequila, and he really should shut the computer down, and he really should have been in bed about two hours ago.

But everyone is wrong about Mike, everywhere he goes. They write tearful stories about how he got reassigned, angry ones about how he left, infuriating ones about how Clint pushed him away. A fandom favorite is that Clint accidentally killed him somehow, friendly fire or some shit; those are so fucking ridiculous that they don't even make him mad.

It's one of the BNFs who makes him lose it, and that's not surprising at all. She's wrong so often that Clint can't understand why anyone listens to her, but there she is again, running her mouth, and something in Clint snaps.

He opens up a tab for a new entry and something pours out of his hands fully formed, something that was teeming under the surface. It's like he rips something out of himself and throws it at the computer, something he could always see out of the corner of his eye but couldn't quite catch before.

 _I know what happened to Mike_ , it says. That's how ninety percent of the meta posts start, and even if it wasn't, Clint's past caring. _Loki killed him. He tried to take on Loki alone, and Loki killed him._

The post goes on for another thousand words, and Clint isn't even honestly sure what all it says. Something about bravery and honor and sacrifice, probably. It's all shit that Clint says he doesn't believe in anymore, shit he'd catch an earful from Natasha for if he even pretended to think it. He doesn't give a shit anymore if believing it makes him simple or stupid; he's drunk and his heart hurts and he has to tell someone, _anyone_ , before it rips him in half.

 _He looked a god in the face and didn't blink_ , it says. _He died like he lived. He died being brave and selfless. You should be proud of him._

He hits post, closes the laptop, and goes to sleep. 

In the morning there are a hundred and fifty comments, and he doesn't read a single one of them.

* * *

Tony's not particularly hard to sneak up on, especially not when he's busy doing something. In this case, he's standing in the lab, busily doing something on one of the monitors; of all the shit for it to be, Tony is on tumblr. Before Clint says anything, he peeks over Tony's shoulder. The name of his blog is clear as day across the top: _Mike Lives_.

Clint pushes the monitor out of the way so that he can get at Tony. Clint shoves on his shoulder, hard enough to throw him off balance and back a few feet; he could beat Tony even in a fair fight, and this one isn't going to be fair at all.

"Do you think this is funny?" Clint demands. "Is this a game to you, Stark?"

Tony doesn't bother to deny it, to pretend that he doesn't know what Clint is talking about; he just gives him a somber look. "There's nothing funny about this at all."

"Phil," Clint says, and he swallows hard around the emotion that's choking him, "is dead. You can't just fuck with people like this. You can't get their hopes up. You're just making it harder."

Tony sighs. "Clint, the game isn't to make people think he's still alive," he says gently. "It's to help the people who know he's dead."

Clint deflates; he feels exhausted, hollowed out without the anger supporting him. "I'm sorry, man," he mumbles.

"Don't be," Tony murmurs. 

They don't talk about it again. The graffiti keeps popping up here and there, and Clint tries not to look at it.

* * *

Three months is what it takes. Three months until he's helping Phil into the quarters that they stopped pretending not to share a long time ago. Three months until Phil has to help _him_ sit down, because he gives out all of a sudden.

He really, really hates Nick Fury right now, enough that he'd quit SHIELD if Phil let him. Rationally, though, when he can separate himself from the situation enough, he realizes that Fury had a plan and it worked; he also realizes that if Phil hadn't pulled through, he would have had to watch him die.

Even considering everything else, all the shit he went through, he doesn't think he'd ever have come through that.

* * *

It's probably a security breach, and Clint could not give less of a damn if he tried. He already knows that every bit of data that leaves the Helicarrier is examined, so it they want to stop him, they'll just have to stop him.

Sitwell gets roped into taking the picture- he doesn't know what he's doing it for, but he obligingly hides behind a car while Clint leads Phil into his favorite bakery. He takes the shot as Clint and Phil leave; Phil has a box of donuts under his arm, Clint is smiling, and it's probably the clearest shot of the two of them that's ever been taken, officially or unofficially, even given the fact that Sitwell is carefully holding the top of that day's newspaper along the bottom of the frame. 

"We could have just taken a picture," Phil says, amused. "I would have held still."

"It can't look like we planned it," Clint tells him. He snorts. "We're not supposed to know about us."

He can see the moment where Phil puts three and six together. "Oh."

"Yeah," Clint says. He looks away. "It was rough for everybody."

"How do you think I feel?" Phil says, and Clint laughs. He stops, but Phil takes a few more steps before he notices. He turns back, looking at Clint curiously. Clint steps forward, putting his arms around him; the donut box gets a little smushed as they kiss, right there in front of God and everybody, because nothing else matters, not at all.

Suck on _that_ , tumblr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out to the crew at the [Coulson Lives Project](http://coulsonlivesproject.tumblr.com). <3


End file.
